


Lady Lazarus

by Lemon_Haze



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/F, I mean come on, Michelle Gomez's character has too many goddamn names, Name-Calling, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, madamspellman, what are we calling this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16658522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Haze/pseuds/Lemon_Haze
Summary: Wrapping herself in a dressing gown, Zelda crossed the room as silent as a grave. She would have a word or two with this Wardwell woman, who was proving to be either inconvenient or, even worse, a threat. A threat to her niece’s induction into the Church of Night, to Sabrina’s capacity to make rational decisions…and a threat to her own sanity, as well.





	Lady Lazarus

Lady Lazarus

 

Zelda Spellman had a problem. It began—although it certainly didn’t end—with one troubling spinster busybody. She couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t unlike Edward to pull such a stunt, going behind their collective backs and enlisting the help of one of his devotees, but…why her? Why the Wardwell woman? This might drive her batty, she decided.

With a glance at her sister, Zelda noticed that there was another one of those…books of hers, splayed out on the bed. Hilda was fast asleep. After their evening’s decidedly eventful trip to the Putnam residence, Hilda had fallen asleep halfway through reading that…filth.         

As if in agreement, Hilda let out a loud snore.        

“Honestly…” Zelda muttered, pushing back her sheets. How could her sister sleep so well, so soundly, after what they’d all witnessed tonight? It was beyond her comprehension.         

Despite the deepening chill of November air, Zelda felt uncomfortably warm. Sweat had dampened her pillow and added another wet layer to her discomfort. Hilda’s snoring, unusually loud tonight, swelled a decibel or two while Zelda sat up to rearrange her pillow. I could do without the audio-commentary, she thought acridly. Hilda’s…literature de la nuit was not one of her usual books, Zelda noticed, glancing over at it. There were no glaring specimens of male abs on this one. Instead, there was the back of a woman’s head, clearly moving downward, while a hand gripped her hair. A suit and tie—and, presumably, a man filling it—lay like an ocean before the book’s tawdry heroine, and Zelda all but rolled her eyes.      

“Of all the things you’d read…” she said, in what was more of a sigh—of annoyance, certainly—than a sentence. Not that she expected a response.         

A darkness shadowed the room and the moon outside; she used to love to watch the night clouds pass over the moon. Where had that old enthusiasm gone? She wasn’t sure. Deciding to open the window a crack, Zelda slid out of bed and was suddenly face to face with a raven on the windowsill. It watched her silently. Satan’s claw, that’s a familiar, she thought. It was large, even for a corvid.

“Who could—?” Zelda stopped.

That meddling bitch. As soon as she made up her mind to shoo the damn thing, the raven flapped away on soundless wings. Moonlight streamed back into the room again. It was as though the bird’s body had extended beyond itself, smothering the pale and spectral light of the late hour.          

With the raven out of her line of sight, another shadow fell across the lawn.

“Hellfire and damnation,” Zelda growled, before glancing over at Hilda’s prone form. Her sister slept soundly while that Wardwell spinster stood in their yard. Watching them. “I’ll deal with this,” she said, annoyed, though there was no one to hear her.

It always came down to her to clean up messes. This Baxter High schoolmarm was one of Sabrina’s—and one of Edward’s—messes. She pushed the thought from her mind. Why should she think unkindly of the dead, when she could be rude to the living? This impudent witch would be a good start; she hadn’t forgotten the woman’s barb, that perhaps she and Hilda _weren’t_ adequate as Sabrina’s guardians.       

Wrapping herself in a dressing gown, Zelda crossed the room as silent as a grave. She would have a word or two with this Wardwell woman, who was proving to be either inconvenient or, even worse, a threat. A threat to her niece’s induction into the Church of Night, to Sabrina’s capacity to make rational decisions…and a threat to her own sanity, as well.

Zelda ignored the fact that her slippers were already wet from the night’s dew and tried to ignore that the rush of cool air did nothing for her. She was almost feverish; the feeling refused to go away. Had the witch cast a spell on her? She couldn’t discount it; Miss Wardwell seemed determined to undermine her.      

She pulled her robe more tightly around herself, despite already feeling smothered and sweating to boot. There was a dampness at the back of her neck, wetting her hair and dripping down her collar. Despite her discomfort, Zelda strode out onto the lawn with purpose.         

“What in Satan’s name are you doing out here?” Zelda hissed in a low tone as soon as their eyes met.       

Mary Wardwell’s eyes grew wide. Stunned, the woman almost looked innocent. “Why, I was just—”         

“Taking up my niece’s offer for tea?” Zelda finished for her. “Or you were just ‘checking in?’ Were you going to say something like that? Spare me the effort of listening to you spinning clumsy falsehoods and spare me the effort of laughing in the face of such absurdity.”        

“Is it so wrong for me to want to make sure that Sabrina hasn’t suffered any repercussions from her ordeal?” Mary Wardwell looked as though _she_ were being the rational one, here.       

“Are there any negative side effects?” Zelda demanded, concern washing over her like a wave. “You never said anything about—”          

“No, no, not like that,” Ms. Wardwell assured her, making a gesture as though to banish Zelda’s apprehension. “I wanted to make sure that, if she was restless and had questions, I’d be in a position to answer them.”        

“Your bloody familiar was outside my room—mine and my sister's,” she hastened to point out. 

When she stopped before Ms. Wardwell, Zelda planted her feet firmly and scowled. There was no need for someone outside of the Spellman family to interfere with Sabrina’s upbringing. Least of all some…excommunicate devotee of Edward’s. She and Hilda were doing a perfectly fine job, all things considered. Minus a few memories erased and other…impulsive actions done to—and amongst—the mortals.         

“My familiar was drawn to you,” Mary Wardwell said, giving a small shrug. Her words were more blunt than Zelda expected.           

“What on earth are you talking about?”         

“Sabrina and your sister are fast asleep, and yet… _you’re_ the one out here, standing before me,” the schoolmarm replied. Her words were pointed, a glittering edge.       

“Anyone in their right mind would have questions about strange witches interfering in family—in coven—business,” Zelda retorted. “Especially excommunicates like you. You and my renegade sister.”        

“You almost sound jealous,” Mary Wardwell suggested. Her tone made the accusation stick. It rankled her like some fetid, viscous substance. “Do you think Hilda and I are thick as thieves?” 

In the distance, that cursed raven cawed. The wind shuffled through the trees in answer. Cold air hit her neck, and Zelda shivered. These were shivers of anger, she told herself. Of justifiable outrage.          

“I am _not_ jealous of my sister associating with another _excommunicate_ , banished from her own coven,” she replied hotly. “One who’s determined to inject a—a _rot_ into our family’s unholy foundations.”          

“Oh, you make it sound so exciting,” Ms. Wardwell said, flashing Zelda an impish smile and clasping her hands together soundlessly. “Please, do go on. I love it when witches praise my _utter_ capacity for radicalism.”        

“I am not praising you, for Satan’s sake!” Her words came out louder than she’d intended, and she froze. A heartbeat passed. Then another. No heads appeared in windows, and no shouts were heard from within the house. Zelda sent a silent prayer to the Dark Lord, that he keep the rest of the Spellman clan from hearing this conversation.           

“It sure sounds like you are,” Ms. Wardwell replied, her voice quiet, but giddy. “Admit it, Zelda Spellman, you witnessed something miraculous tonight, and it excited you.”

The dark-haired woman leaned forward, twitching those bright lips at her in a knowing smile. Damn those whore-red lips. She noticed the woman’s green blouse shone in the patchwork moonlight, filtering through the tree leaves. The blouse was cut obscenely—it dipped even lower than Zelda’s expectations.

“Excited? I’ve been sick with worry,” Zelda snapped, as though it weren’t obvious.

 

Her feet were cold in the damp shoes, the wet grass, but she was hot with what was surely hellfire. She could feel beads of sweat at her temples. Down her neck. More than anything, she wished she’d remembered her cigarette case on the nightstand. It created the perfect air of apathy, of polite disinterest. Anything to avoid showing how she truly felt here, in this moment.

“You have a lovely sheen to you, dear, but let’s not pretend your…condition…is due to matronly concern,” the older woman said. Mary Wardwell chuckled.

“This is not about me,” Zelda insisted. Damn that awful red lipstick you’re wearing, she thought. Zelda was disgusted by the cheap makeup, bottomless neckline, and that wild mess of hair spilling over the other woman’s shoulders. And damn her for being here tonight.

She pointedly ignored the way the other woman all but slithered forward, silent. Deadly. Why did she come here in an outfit that crossed every line of respectability, and to look at her niece for that matter?

“This is about you,” she told the spinster, trying not to grind her teeth. Some had only recently grown back, after all. “And your, frankly, disturbing attempts to seduce my niece. She is underage, and you are far too old to play those kinds of games with her.”

“I have _never_ attempted to seduce Sabrina,” Mary Wardwell replied, her expression melting into one of shock and disgust. She clicked her tongue, gaudy mouth a perfect ‘O.’

“I am offended you would accuse me of such a thing. I promised Edward—”

“Yes, yes,” Zelda cut her off. “Edward asked you to watch over her, which is another unnecessary headache for another time—but why are you out here, right now?”

“You saw my familiar,” Ms. Wardwell said. She spoke as if she were talking to a child too young to understand the complexities of the Dark Lord’s will. “He saw you looked…plagued with questions, and—”

“And you, out of the kindness of your unholy heart, decided to come and check up on me, like a nursemaid.” 

“I wanted to acquaint myself with you better,” she said softly, her voice conspiratorial. “But now that you mention it, I have to know…do you like to play those sorts of games? It’s been a few decades, but I can indulge you, if that’s what you’re craving.”

“I…what? —no, no, no,” Zelda replied, shaking her head. The night breeze found the nape of her neck and prickled her skin. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want any of this.

“You don’t have to be a spoilsport,” Mary told her. The teacher’s expression melted into a faux-pout.

That the comment irked her was an understatement. It was the same old complaint—that she was the stern one, the disciplinarian, that she was incapable of having fun. Zelda instinctively reached for her cigarette case and…was disappointed, yet again.

 “This isn’t about—” Her halting, staggered replies were cut off by a sudden hand on her shoulder.

“I see what this is,” Mary Wardwell said softly, tapping her fingernails in a trail along Zelda’s collar. “You’re nervous. Coming out here was the first move, and you’re not used to that, are you? Being the first to take action.”

Damn Mary Wardwell and her heady voice, her careless whisper.

Zelda bit her lip and, before she could even think about a response, Mary Wardwell curled a finger around a lock of her hair. Mary’s hand slid up the nape of her neck almost reverently. Then she felt the other woman’s hand became a fist around her hair, before pulling her head back.

She jerked, feeling off-balanced and overwhelmed. The noises she made had been intended for insults, for righteous indignation, but they were anything but as teeth nipped at her ear. Then Zelda felt hot breath on her neck, and she couldn’t hold back the sharp little gasp that she made.

Nor could she stop the vicious shudder that ran through her when the witch kneed her legs apart. She felt a firm thigh thrust under her sex. When she looked down, she saw that the other woman’s skirt was hiked up to permit the motion. A wicked cunt for a wicked witch, Zelda thought, looking at the wild dark curls of a woman who didn’t wear underwear.  

“You see something you like?” Mary asked.

“This is entirely inappropriate, but—”

“But?” The schoolmarm quirked an eyebrow.

“But I do, and I—I don’t like being teased,” she replied, far more breathily than she would’ve liked. It’d been too long since someone looked at her like this. Saw her as someone other than a mentor, or a member of the community. Since someone looked at her with desire.   

“Let’s see what we can do about that.” Ms. Wardwell sounded quite sure of herself. Arrogant.

 

Zelda felt a hand on the front of her robe, parting it soundlessly. Mary Wardwell smiled, rubbing a finger along the fabric of her panties, poised right above her slit. She couldn’t help it; Zelda’s eyes fluttered closed at the contact. Suddenly, a thumb pushed aside her underwear, sliding into her quite rudely.

“You think you can just—!” She cut herself off as the offender rubbed her clit. There was nothing delicate about it—nothing about this woman was delicate. Zelda was transfixed beneath that sly smile, that pillaging grin.

“Will you let me sup at your table, Miss Zelda Spellman?” the witch asked. Her thumb stilled. “Or shall I stop here?”

“N—No, don’t.” The plea flew out of her mouth, not unlike a bat out of Hell. She cursed her own neediness and her utter lack of restraint. Curse her traitorous mouth and her treacherous, quivering thighs. Out the frying pan and into hellfire, she thought.

“That’s what I thought,” Mary said, comfortably—and completely—smug.

Red lips and a cruel mouth pressed down onto her own. Warm breath filled her right as she felt a painful little prick. The other woman’s thumbnail pinched a little inside her, but Zelda found she sort of liked that as well.

“Oh, yes…you _do_ like that,” Mary breathed, stroking her cruelly with weaponized fingers. “A bit of pain with your pleasure, hmm? I knew you had exquisite taste; after all, pain is but the beginning curve of joy.”

 

The compliment touched something warm behind her navel. Zelda felt herself leaning into the touch; Satan’s claw was all that held her up from falling into the dirt. She ground her hips into the touch and was rewarded with another burst of that curious mixture—that teetering balance of both pain and pleasure. Mary’s teeth bit at her exposed neck, sharp enough to bruise. A soothing tongue followed—a merciful counterspell—to numb her trail.

“Oh, you foul…”

“Yes,” Mary breathed, “keep going.”  

“You’re a foul temptress,” Zelda told her. Her words were faint, even in her own ears. When had the Wardwell woman lowered her to the ground? Zelda slowly grew aware that the witch pushed her down when the grass stole through her hair. She felt the fabric of her slip gather around her shoulders, and she wiggled out of it with assistance.

The help was, unfortunately, necessary. She couldn’t even gather her thoughts; every possible string of words was banished as soon as Mary Wardwell slid down the length of her body. That wilderness of dark hair tickled her belly, her thighs. She felt swollen. Feverish. Damn her own traitorous flesh.

“You’re a succubus. A whore,” Zelda added.

Mary Wardwell’s form surged up to deliver a crushing kiss. All the while her hand worked, cruelly tender. Zelda couldn’t feel the sin of the wet dew or the grass, but she reached out and felt what was between those dark thighs. There was a pulsing warmth and wetness there. Apparently, vulgarity wrapped in lust was just what Ms. Wardwell wanted. Zelda would give it to her.

“I’m better than that,” Mary said, giving her a toothy grin.

Mary gripped and squeezed her breast. Zelda leaned into the touch. Then she saw—and felt—Mary’s head bend low, licking and sucking. Teeth bit at her nipples hungrily. It was though the schoolmarm carried within her the urgency of a starving hellhound.

Zelda’s fingers felt numb and clumsy inside the other woman at first, but she saw Mary rock those hips into her touch all the same. That slutty skirt whispered as it gathered around her wrist. She felt the way those lips sucked at her fingers—it was as though they belonged in Mary Wardwell’s cunt. Zelda fingered that sticky pearl and, delighted, watched Mary’s shuddering gasps in response.

The other woman was spellbindingly beautiful in her passion. Her eyes had a coldness to them, even now, in the thick veil of night. Mary bit her shoulder in a brief, fluttering gesture. Then she bit the base of Zelda’s throat hard enough to bruise. Pain sparked in the tendons there, and Zelda’s moan tapered off into a soft whimper. But now Mary was teasing her clit. Pleasure smothered the pain in her throat; it dwindled into nothingness.  

Botanists know something they can’t tell, Zelda thought suddenly, wildly. Why else would they name that carnivorous trap after Venus?

Zelda had two fingers in the other woman, and her thumb rubbed her clit. Feeling drawn in, she slipped two more fingers into her. The reaction was instantaneous: Mary shuddered against her, thighs quivering, moaning softly. She was magnetic.

There was a vice around her fingers. Mary Wardwell squeezed her thighs, rocking her hips into her. Zelda felt Mary’s fingers stroke her in return, the motions nearly frenetic.

Looking down, she saw that the woman’s skirt had come undone, and her blouse parted to show a perfect, round breast, with a pert brown nipple. It was more her doing than the night air, she knew. Zelda leaned upward to kiss her there, to kiss a trail to that delightful salutation of a tit.

She was rewarded with a low moan of pleasure. When she took her nipple into her teeth and bit down, gently, Mary’s breath caught in her throat.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed.

Zelda licked and bit the curve of the other woman’s breast, before nosing open the rest of that cumbersome blouse to give the other the same treatment. She inhaled the perfume of the other woman’s scent—it was such an odd, intoxicating mixture. She was warm against Zelda yet had a smell of wet earth—a captured sort of dampness—but with an underlying edge of sweetness. Was this the fragrance of a schoolmarm witch, something akin to a fruit about to turn?

Mary ground herself into Zelda’s touch, and her low, halting cries would cut off more frequently. When Zelda’s head poked back out from the other woman’s blouse, she saw that Mary’s head was tilted back, eyelids fluttering. When she pinched and flicked her clit, Mary’s breath grew harsher, her cries more insistent. Zelda put her thumb in her, too, and heard a moan in response.

“Yes, like that…” Mary trailed off, before hissing as Zelda’s hand moved inside her. She rode her hand like she planned to take it with her.

After a while, Zelda felt the other woman’s limbs lock around her, frozen in her ecstasy. Zelda delighted in the shudders, the quivering of Mary’s thighs around her, while the other woman came.

Mary required a few moments to recover herself, and her fingers stilled. Zelda wasn’t proud of the small noise she made, twitching in her need. But soon enough, the other woman rewarded her with a kiss; one of satisfaction, of gratitude, and something else that seemed almost endless. She felt—and watched—the other woman kiss her way down her shivering, sweating body.

Zelda felt those wicked fingers penetrate her more deeply, as Mary’s tongue found her clit. She moaned almost too loudly. Her thighs trembled, and she had to hold herself back from squeezing them around the other woman. Then Mary curled the fingers inside of her, in a ‘come hither’ motion, and Zelda felt as if a jolt of electricity had gone through her. She put a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle the moan.

“Don’t do that,” Mary breathed against her. She wanted to hear Zelda’s moan—that, or she wanted them to get caught here, in flagrante delicto.

She felt the waves of her passion rock against her belly; her thighs locked around the other woman’s head as if holding on for dear life. There was a sudden curve of pain as Mary bit and flicked at her clit. Then Mary blew a puff of cold air on her there. Zelda couldn’t even try to contain her string of moans—all she could do was press her head, her shoulders, into the soft earth. She felt her thighs shaking uncontrollably.

Zelda squirted.

 

It was a half a moment after she saw Mary resurface—dripping, blinking, and slightly confused—before she realized what she’d done. Belated embarrassment colored her cheeks. Before she could stammer out an apology, Mary leaned back in. She swallowed and licked up Zelda’s satisfaction eagerly, lapping at her thighs. Zelda could only close her eyes and shudder, feeling belated waves of pleasure follow as Mary lapped at her swollen sex.

When they’d finished, and Zelda had come more times in a single encounter than she’d had in the last decade, surely, Mary slid up her body for another kiss. She could taste herself upon her lips.

They caught their breath side by side. She noticed the other woman all but glowing, eyes shining in her direction. Her chest rising and falling. She waited, but Mary said nothing. Instead, when they’d both recovered, she reached out to grab Zelda’s breast.

“You _are_ insatiable, aren’t you?” she asked Mary.

“You have _no_ idea.” Another sly grin. She squeezed her breast almost reverently.

“Will you come in for some…tea?” Zelda asked, already knowing the answer and silently berating herself for sounding so desperate.

“And have to explain myself, should anyone come downstairs? I’d rather not,” she replied.

“Still…” Zelda wasn’t sure where this feeling came from; she was reluctant for it to end, to see her leave.        

“Come find my cottage some evening, and soon,” Mary told her, red nails leaving long, lazy trails upon her breast.        

“I will,” she promised. “You should call on us for supper—a real supper, I mean—sometime soon.”          

“Oh, I’m afraid I only eat men,” Mary replied impishly.        

She couldn’t help herself; Zelda smiled.

*

When she got back to her room, Zelda took off the wet robe and immediately lit a cigarette. She hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages, surely. The phosphorus of the match striking filled her nose, and she cupped her hands around it to shield the light from her still-sleeping sister. That rush of nicotine was a nice cap to the evening, like a mint after dinner. Looking out the window, she saw neither woman nor familiar. It was for the best, really. But Zelda couldn’t shake the feeling that she had been loved by something strange, something that would forget her in the light of day.  

 

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Sylvia Plath poem of the same name. I can't help but love that dark bitch. 
> 
> "Out of the ash  
> I rise with my red hair  
> And I eat men like air."
> 
> I am so down for the trend in this pairing for fics to have Lilith show up and fuck Zelda, then ghost.


End file.
